


The Stag and the Fawn

by detailsinthefabric



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detailsinthefabric/pseuds/detailsinthefabric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the bawdiest of songs and the most beautiful retellings of the adventures of King Arthur, there was never any mention of his addiction to hunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stag and the Fawn

**Author's Note:**

> So this was inspired by one of Aesop's Fables, "The Stag and the Fawn," where the apparently weak little fawn asks the proud stag why he always seemed brave until the hunters came around. The stag then admits that he's never brave when it counts. The moral is: the greatest braggarts are the greatest cowards.
> 
> I don't know why, but this really reminded me of Arthur and Merlin's relationship, how Arthur was always in charge of the situation until things got actually dangerous, and then Merlin would have to do everything, despite how he appeared to be the weaker one. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Arthur is meant to be a coward, but (in my head at least) he always seemed too scared to acknowledge his feelings for Merlin, until it was too late.
> 
> I've always wanted to write a bridge ending to Merlin, but I never thought anything I could write would be good enough! So thanks so much for checking it out.

In the bawdiest of songs and the most beautiful retellings of the adventures of King Arthur, there was never any mention of his addiction to hunting.

Merlin always felt wronged by this. He felt insulted by titles such as “Arthur the Brave” or “Arthur the Invincible” and the way storytellers, even modern ones, always seemed to want to shape Arthur into this messiah that was rid of human imperfections.

Back when Merlin used to spend every day with Arthur, he was practically crawling with flaws. He was arrogant and ignorant and confused and self-loathing and he didn’t know how to reach out to people. He was stressed and constantly tired of living and when things got too hard, he would turn his overly expressive eyes to Merlin and ask in a voice that made everything sound like a plea, “What do I do, Merlin?”

In this particularly awful adaptation of the Arthurian legend, it read that “King Arthur abhorred the idea of killing.” It almost made Merlin laugh, but he choked on it, coughed, and found that his hands were shaking in the most humiliating way. Being a thousand years old had its physiological setbacks.

_Arthur abhorred killing?_

Perhaps Arthur didn’t _love_ killing, but he was addicted to it. When there were no great battles or tournaments or some other dangerous way to earn himself a badge of honour, Arthur would drag a scowling Merlin into the forest and insist on hunting from dusk ’til dawn. He loved the thrill of the chase, the animalistic way his entire body came alive, how the circle of life and the laws of the natural world made themselves apparent in ways that were forgotten in the prosperous kingdom. Arthur loved hunting so much, his love for Merlin seemed to bloom with every quiet, sneaking step, every spotted hoof print.

Merlin’s eyes half-closed at the memory. He found himself being overwhelmed with nostalgia, right there in the middle of the Barnes & Noble. Why he tortured himself with reading skewed legends all the time, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was because, even though the public’s Arthur was unfamiliar and idyllic, it was still a little piece of Arthur that Merlin could cling onto, a reminder of the best days of his life that he would never get back.

He sighed and put the barely Arthurian monstrosity back on the shelf. Merlin was far too practical to waste his money on such crap. He had _Le Morte d’Arthur_ at home, and a relatively modern series he was particularly fond of, _The Lost Years of Merlin_. The story had literally nothing to do with Merlin’s actual childhood, but the author had captured the medieval setting just right, painting a life that Merlin wished he had lived.

A life where Arthur was insignificant, a later addend. Not his entire life. Not his lost love.

Merlin checked his wallet to make sure he had enough money for a quick Starbucks stop. He could not make it through this day without coffee.

In his ancient bones, he felt Arthur’s presence surround him, drown him. Usually, such days were reserved solely for sitting at home and reminiscing. When he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, all he could remember was Arthur’s blue eyes losing their brilliance, his face slackening into the grimace of death, Merlin’s own screams tearing through his young throat.

These days, all Merlin wanted to do was remember the bright days.

~*~

The forest was alive and breathing, and seemed to encompass Arthur’s very being into its heart. Arthur was gliding through the trees like a good-natured spirit, and branches seemed to embrace him, gently paw at his face and then retract respectfully. The leaves did not crunch underfoot, seeming to understand Arthur’s need for silence and inconspicuousness. Merlin could only watch with awe and a good dose of envy, as the forest in turn seemed to reject him, tripping him up, leaves flying around him, the wind pushing his hair into his face, Arthur’s equipment clunking heavily around his shoulders.

“Merlin, could you, for just this one day, _shut up_?” Even Arthur’s voice was quiet, but his expression spoke of loud rage.

“Oh, sure. You try carrying all this stuff and I’ll see what I can do.” Merlin was grumpy. He hated hunting. He didn’t understand the thrill of chasing after an unarmed animal and handing over its corpse like a prize. Seeing the live animal and then having to eat it later often made him dreadfully ill. Sometimes he could sense the animal’s soul with the magic that got away from him, and then suddenly, it would be gone. Arthur’s joy for these things brought Merlin the opposite, and already a sort of queasiness was taking over him.

“Merlin, why can’t you ever just do what I say without snapping like an angry turtle?” Arthur’s back was to him again, and he continued his stealthy treading.

“If I did that, you would get bored,” replied Merlin with faux cheerfulness, because he knew that would piss Arthur off. But Arthur didn’t reply, supposedly too focused to care about whatever Merlin had to say.

Merlin also hated this about hunting. Whatever connection they supposedly shared was broken by their uncrossable differences and the general tediousness of the entire affair. Arthur was on a different planet again, and it brought Merlin more misery than he thought.

He snapped out of his daze to Arthur’s frantic gesturing, a series of complicated hand movements that never made any sense to Merlin. Arthur finally threw up his hands in exasperation and volunteered the information:

“There’s a big, fat owl up in the tree so if you would please be quiet for two seconds I would greatly appreciate it.”

Arthur’s tone indicated that whatever appreciation he had would definitely not be very deep.

Merlin stared at the owl as the poor thing blinked unaware at the rustling of the tree leaves. It was brown, speckled, wide-eyed, and far too lovable for such a violent death. Merlin considered sabotaging the hunt to save it, but then decided against it when he thought of the hours and hours of stable cleaning he would likely be subjected to.

Arthur aimed his crossbow with the tight precision of the trained prince and the thrill seeker. His focus was completely on that owl in a way that it was never on Merlin. For a moment, Merlin felt bizarrely envious of the dumb bird; but in the next, the shot had been fired, and the owl fell with as much ignorance in death as it had in life.

Arthur lowered his crossbow and walked over to the fallen creature with an exalted cheer. When Merlin finally found it in him to lumber over himself, he found the owl’s amber eyes still wide open but unblinking, it’s blood soaking its downy belly. A creature made for flight, a symbol of intelligence and wisdom, amounted to a lump of meat and a split second of entertainment.

“Oh,” he said, and felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, though he didn’t understand why. He had been on many hunts with Arthur before, but he supposed in the recent ups and downs that came with the monopolization of Arthur in his life, he had become rather depressed, and hunting was the absolute worst thing to help pull him out of it.

“This’ll make a lovely supper! Father will be so pleased,” beamed Arthur, taking the fowl by its thick, clawed legs and carrying it with no care whatsoever. “Merlin, you have one more thing to carry.”

Merlin shrank away from the feathered carcass now being held toward him, and finally Arthur grew suspicious at his silence.

“Merlin? Why aren’t you annoying me? This is most unusual.” When Arthur took a step closer, he lowered the owl. “Are you…are you _crying_?”

Merlin expected there to be distaste in his tone, but all he heard was surprise.

“No,” he said with the indignation that comes with youth, “I’m just disgusted.”

For a moment, Arthur’s mouth opened and closed, temporarily mute. Then he finally prompted, “Disgusted?”

“Owls are considered sacred by the druids, Arthur. They symbolize wisdom and serve as messengers of the gods! And you just killed one to please your father? Exactly how many do you kill for just that reason? How many that have done nothing to deserve your scorn?”

Mid-rant, Merlin realized that this was not about owls at all, and felt foolish. If Gaius knew about this, he would be furious. Merlin had a natural inclination to fight Arthur’s breeding, and it sometimes came out at the most awkward of times.

Arthur was staring at him, open-mouthed. It had been three years since Merlin had met Arthur, and although he had done a lot of growing, sometimes he seemed exactly as he did when they met in the square, all learning vacated from his mind.

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked, in a way that suggested genuine concern for Merlin’s sanity. “It’s just a _bird_ , Merlin. We _eat_ birds. You know, _to survive_.”

“But you’re not killing them because you need them for eating. You’re killing them because you _want_ to.” Tears were gathering faster now and Merlin wished he wasn’t so bold and straightforward. He was doing nothing but embarrassing himself. “I don’t understand you, Arthur. I don’t understand how anyone could enjoy this horrible thing. It’s like death doesn’t even matter to you.”

Something Merlin had said had caused something to awaken in Arthur. Perhaps it was some deeply buried guilt, or the conscience that differentiated him from Uther, but whatever it was caused his eyes to widen and his throat to swallow audibly.

“Merlin,” he said in a half-whisper, the introduction to one of Arthur’s darkest thoughts, before it got blown away in the wind. Merlin watched as Arthur’s vulnerabilities disappeared with the tightening of his jaw and the lowering of his eyelids. “I am not having this conversation with you,” he continued in his most princely voice. “Whatever’s gotten into you, make sure to leave it behind. It’s an inconvenience to have to drag around a whiny manservant on a hunt.”

Arthur turned quickly so as not to reveal anything else, and Merlin was speechless with outrage at Arthur, while also being furious with himself for saying anything in the first place. Arthur was walking so fast without looking behind him that Merlin broke into a light jog so he wouldn’t lose him in the wilderness. Despite his inner turmoil and his doubts about Arthur, he could never do anything but follow.

It wasn’t long before they reached a clearing where a doe was peacefully grazing, majestically lit by the afternoon sun. Merlin felt his gut clench and glanced at Arthur, who he found to be staring at him with a line of concern on his forehead. Merlin was pleading to Arthur with his eyes, _Please don’t kill it please don’t kill it please please please_ , and at first Arthur seemed to soften at the servant’s desperation before something in his head told him otherwise and he instantly transformed into that reflection of Uther, who would go to drastic measures just to spite others.

Arthur raised his crossbow.

Merlin took a deep breath that he hoped the doe would hear and run away, but she continued her gentle exploration of the tall grass.

Arthur aimed his crossbow.

Merlin had a brief, crazy urge to use magic to help the deer escape, maybe send the crossbow flying out of Arthur’s hands, but it was gone within a second.

Arthur’s finger lingered over the trigger of the crossbow.

Merlin wondered why he was so desperate to save this deer, what he was trying to prove. Maybe he wanted Arthur to appreciate life more and think about his actions. Maybe he had just seen enough death for now.

At that moment, the bushes shook and the loud footsteps of an animal encompassed the clearing, causing Arthur to lower the crossbow a little in surprise. A large stag plodded up to the female, sniffed the air with suspicion, and seemed to watch over the doe, radiating protectiveness. The delicate doe herself seemed overjoyed at the stag’s appearance and approached him, prodding at him slightly with her nose.

“Look at that thing,” Arthur marveled, his eyes locked on the stag, part-amazed, part-nervous. “Its antlers are gigantic. It must be king of the forest.”

Merlin was focusing on the doe though, shy, gentle, beautiful, and now nuzzling adoringly at the cool-eyed stag.

“They’re in love,” he whispered back. “Oh, Arthur, you can’t kill them. You’ll probably have only time to get one, anyway. That’s just…too sad!”

Arthur considered Merlin, flickered his eyes up and down his length in that way that suggested he was measuring every aspect of Merlin’s words. He looked back at the stag and the doe, and gently lowered the armed crossbow, setting it on the ground between them. The stag was reluctantly nuzzling back, although his antlers made it awkward.

“They’re quite sweet, aren’t they?” he said, a little smile on his face.

Merlin’s heart softened, his insides feeling like churned butter. Arthur had a giant heart that he liked to cover up with all that regality that made Merlin feel ill. There, in the sweetness of the afternoon sun, they watched together as the stag and the doe chased each other playfully around the clearing, took pauses to graze, sometimes just stared at each other. Arthur’s eyes were glittering as he laughed quietly at the sight. And when Merlin moved to dutifully disarm the crossbow to prevent a disaster from occurring, they both ignored how Arthur’s gloved hand enveloped his, and until the deer disappeared, did not let go.

~*~

Merlin let out a long sigh, the image fading from behind his old, old eyes, his coffee radiating a warmth that almost imitated that of Arthur’s hand. He breathed in the Starbucks smell, smiled politely at the young people whose gazes flickered in curiosity at the ancient man casually loafing in the corner. His heart ached for those lost times, but he was grateful for the modern comforts of gourmet coffees, which had become internationally available only in the last century or so.

It wasn’t that it was uncommon for Merlin to daydream about Arthur—Arthur was constantly on his mind, a wordless ghost that followed a mere step behind him everywhere he went. The idea of him even slipping Merlin’s mind for a second was as atrocious and unfathomable as forgetting to breathe. But Merlin was merely human; being immortal had not prevented him from changing with age, just like any other. His memories of Camelot had long faded to fuzzy images, and only if he squinted; Arthur’s face alone remained impenetrable. Everyone else, even his most beloved, were abstractions.

But it had been a very, very long time since Merlin had experienced a memory so vivid, something he did not even think his tired brain capable of. For a minute, he had breathed Camelot air, felt hunting equipment weigh on his shoulders, heard Arthur’s voice whisper in his ear.

He shook himself out of it, prayed he was not going senile. Just then, a rabble of university students burst in, too loud in the relative quiet of the café. Some were holding beer bottles, one was blasting music out of an earphone-less iPod. An unsteady young man slammed a hand against the counter and shouted for peppermint mochas.

It took a couple of a minutes, but eventually a nervous-looking barista went to usher them out.

“This is not a drinking establishment,” he said, trying too hard to be stern, “and we do not accept rowdy customer behaviour.”

There were loud complaints and booing, but eventually the rabble was gone. Everyone sitting inside seemed instantly relieved.

“Sorry about that, guys,” said the barista, smiling with extreme relief himself, and disappeared behind the counter.

Merlin picked up his jacket and made to leave. He remembered when he could celebrate his youth and recklessness like that. Although, he had never been much for drinking or the general rowdiness that came with the expectations of being a barely-grown boy.

Arthur had been. He was as tightly wound as any important official, but after a particularly stressful event, he couldn’t stop himself from drinking too much, being a little too loud, laughing a little inappropriately. Those nights would usually be the most worrisome while also the most amusing of Merlin’s career as a servant.

The recollection was immediate—although Merlin’s love for Arthur had felt like it had always been there, waiting for him to discover, there was no physical attraction for a long time. Or at least, Merlin had set it aside for more important things. His love for Arthur was made up of concern and need for a better tomorrow and a greater purpose, but that changed. Slowly at first, and then altogether, an unwelcome revelation.

It was suddenly hard to breathe, a problem Merlin had never had. He raced outside, feeling like he was being literally chased by his memories, grabbing at him, screaming for his attention.

He slowed to his usual senior citizen pace at the sidewalk. The wind smelled of ale and smoke.

~*~

The chill of the night air was dispelled by the large fire Merlin had accomplished with the help of some subtle magic and the body heat of dozens of knights. Arthur’s laugh travelled through the clearing like the richest music ever played, warming Merlin’s belly more than any cider ever could, the stars shining in his blue eyes.

As the new king of Camelot, Arthur’s celebrations were rare and far-between. He had problems with Morgana, problems with betrayals, problems with his relationships, and also every one of Camelot citizens’ problems. In his free time, if Arthur wasn’t pacing around his chambers like a trapped hound, he was slumped over in his chair with his head on his desk, his gaze begging for someone to come save him. Merlin would straighten his shoulders, plaster on a wide grin, and accept that role, every time.

But if there was one thing to be said about Arthur, he truly thought that hard work deserved equal payment. And after a week of nerve-racking training for a battle that never actually happened against Caerleon, Arthur decided that celebrating the revival of peace with his knights was the right thing to do.

After they had returned to Camelot, Arthur organized a large hunt to revive the knights (and himself), and arranged for several kegs of ale, cider, and wine to be brought into the woods. Merlin had predictably not enjoyed himself—although he reveled in Arthur’s genuine smile—but when the day was done, the assortment of animals cooked and the kegs opened, he allowed himself to relax for dinner under the stars.

It didn’t take long for the knights to get raucous. They burst into a disorderly and frankly awful rendition of “When We’re in the Tavern,” a song all about the joys of drinking. Gwaine was the best singer and knew all the words. Percival beside him looked very lost, but happily joined in nonetheless.

Arthur had probably never even heard a commoner ballad before, but he laughed and applauded, his cheeks flushed a healthy red. Merlin grinned as he watched him, took a large gulp of cider before Leon joyfully slapped him on the back and half of it sloshed onto the ground.

Merlin looked back up to find Arthur staring at him, his inscrutable expression flickering along with the flames, his cup twirling thoughtfully in his hand. Merlin felt himself working into a blush, but he couldn’t tell if it was due to Arthur, the cider, the heat of the fire, or all three.

Arthur put down his cup and rose, patting Elyan’s shoulder as he passed. His staggering about was not at all kingly, but thankfully, no one seemed to notice or care. When Arthur finally reached Merlin, he looked breathtakingly excited in the way only celebrating could make him. He leaned for support against Merlin’s arm.

“Come with me,” he said, his alcohol-breath hitting Merlin full-on in the face.

“Why? Where?” Merlin hadn’t drunk enough to be nearly as careless.

“ _Come_ ,” Arthur insisted, tugging at him, and he was no longer a king giving a servant an order, but a small boy pleading for attention.

Merlin was used to Arthur’s ambiguous demands and all too moved by Arthur’s soft eyes and the biting of his lip. He got to his feet and took a firm hold around Arthur’s waist so that he wouldn’t trip over something and humiliate himself. Merlin’s worries over Arthur’s wellbeing ranged from life-or-death to the microscopic.

When they were a good three metres away from the fire, Arthur pulled away from Merlin so he could lead the way into the woods. As soon as Arthur took his first step into the shadows, Merlin hesitated to follow. The knights’ voices echoed over their heads: _The mistress drinks, the master drinks, the soldier and the cleric drink…_

“Come _on_ ,” Arthur whined, his voice getting deeper with familiar aggravation, but considering his inebriated state, Merlin stood his ground.

“Arthur, do you need to pee or something? Because if that’s the case, I’d really rather not—”

“ _Mer_ lin.” Arthur’s face, for a mere second, flickered with all too serious sobriety.

“Alright, alright,” Merlin sighed, cursing his good nature. But when they were shrouded in the darkness of the forest, the campfire a mere flicker through the trees, he changed his mind again. “Arthur, whatever it is, does it have to be so far away? Or can it at least wait until morning?”

Arthur did not answer, but in the next moment, Merlin felt a warm hand wrap around his and gently urge him to keep moving. Merlin’s breath caught at the rare touch; the last time this had occurred had been two years ago, and promptly forgotten. He did not speak the rest of the walk, but his thumb experimentally stroked the back of Arthur’s hand, curious as to what was allowed.

When Arthur finally stopped in the middle of a copse of trees, Merlin looked around in bewilderment. The moon was visible from this area, and allowed a little silver light to help with Merlin’s night blindness, but other than that, there was nothing spectacular.

“Arthur? Why did you—?” Merlin’s question was cut short when he realized how close Arthur was to him, his lips a mere inch from Merlin’s, their breath chasing each other in the cool air.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and it was a whisper this time, a sound that filled up the whole of the night.

Merlin knew what was happening, and at the same time he could not believe it. He put his hands against Arthur’s chest, intending to push him away, but instead started stroking lightly over his leather vest.

“Why did you take me here?” he repeated, finishing the question. Merlin’s fingers worked their way up to under Arthur’s collar, where he felt him swallow.

“Because I wanted us to be alone,” Arthur replied in drunken immediacy.

“Why?” Merlin massaged along Arthur’s neck, recognized that this was the most intimate they had ever been.

“Because I wanted you.” Arthur’s voice was a low growl now, and Merlin could feel the heat of his desire hit him much more intensely than he had ever expected. His fingers unlatched from Arthur in shock at the same moment that Arthur’s found Merlin’s waist. He ran warm hands up Merlin’s loose tunic and back down again.

“Wait,” Merlin said, more determinedly now, even though he was starting to feel lightheaded himself. He put his hands on Arthur’s arms and immediately, his king stilled. “What about Gwen?”

Arthur paused for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t want Guinevere. I want _you_ , Merlin. I _need_ you.” Arthur’s breathing was getting harsher, his hands trembling against Merlin’s sides.

“Since when?” Merlin asked, his breathing picking up to mirror Arthur’s, his grip tightening around Arthur’s sleeves.

Arthur released a tortured moan that surprised and traveled through Merlin’s entire body. “Why don’t you understand? Since the first time you called me an ass. Since the moment we met. Since before that, even. Since always.”

The problem was, Merlin _did_ understand. He understood completely. He had sensed Arthur before he met Arthur. He had known Arthur his entire life without really knowing him. When he was little and imagined growing up and falling in love, it was Arthur whom he pictured. Merlin and Arthur had always been walking perpendicular to each other, destined to meet. But Merlin had never known that feeling to be mutual, and it was difficult for him to accept.

“You’re drunk,” he said finally, weakly attempting to push Arthur away.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, “I’m drunk. And I’m in love with you. And I’m not in the mood to deny us this any longer.”

Arthur leaned forward and kissed Merlin so earnestly, it felt like bad manners to refuse. And when Arthur moved closer, Merlin knew it was impossible to pull away. Just as it was impossible to turn his back on Arthur, on Camelot, on destiny. As his left hand ran up through Arthur’s soft hair, he felt the strings of fate pulling at him, tying him and Arthur together. For the first time in his life, Merlin was powerless.

“A-Arthur, this is…” gasped Merlin as a warm, calloused hand drifted down his trousers.

“Incredible,” Arthur whispered against his lips, and with a grace that only Arthur could manage, he lowered them into the grass.

~*~

“Arthur.” Merlin was crying into the wind as if his tears could reach heaven, and felt ridiculous. He marveled at how he probably looked, an old man crying over a dead lover in the grey mid-afternoon. He wasn’t sure how long he had been walking, or to where. He just had the sense he needed to be moving, and his old bones were not denying him this, for once.

He was drifting away from the city, and the roads were mostly empty, only the occasional automobile trundling by. He probably wouldn’t even be able to find the copse where they had finally made love, the trees embracing them and covering their every noise; it was probably a highway now, or a parking lot. But Merlin remembered the absolute rightness of that night, Arthur filling every bit of him as he always meant to. And he also remembered the next morning, when Arthur couldn’t even look him in the eye, and Merlin felt like he had been cleaved in half.

Arthur did not approach Merlin and apologize, or tell him that it was a mistake; if so, Merlin would never have lived to twenty-three, let alone a thousand. But he did not change his life to fit Merlin’s new role in either. When Arthur and Guinevere were wed, Arthur’s artificial smile broke Merlin, and when their eyes met in the crowd of people, Arthur’s sparkle was gone, his eyes dead. Merlin cried through his chanting of “long live the Queen,” and everyone believed it to be due to overwhelming happiness.

For the next year or so, Merlin was always at least half-miserable. Arthur treated him like some breakable thing, and could never fully meet his eyes. For a while, Merlin thought that his being drunk had caused him to talk about things he didn’t really feel, but it was Arthur’s seemingly shared misery that led him to realize that Arthur understood exactly what was between them, and was afraid.

It took another life-or-death experience and an emboldened Merlin shouting, “Can you at least _look_ at me when you talk to me?” for them to return to a semblance of stability. But unlike the handholding, that night was never fake-forgotten, but always between them, a little reminder that they could always be that something more.

Merlin closed his eyes and breathed out a long, dreary sigh when he realized where he was going. He kicked at a pebble on the side of the road, cursed his memories’ relentless pursuit, and, despite his desperate desire to avoid it, allowed himself to be absorbed into his last memory of Arthur.

~*~

The forest encompassed them until it made breathing seem like an impossibility. There was no birdsong to speak of; no crunching of leaves underfoot or the muted chirping of crickets in the undergrowth. The whole world was mourning the fall of Arthur, but none half so much as Merlin, who couldn’t even cry, he was in such a state of bitter denial.

Arthur was still warm and alive in his arms. His breathing was laboured, and his staggering was void of his kingly grace, but his existence was solid, and that was a comfort. Merlin clutched at his waist, wishing he could pick up Arthur as easily as Arthur had done for him so many times, and, not for the first time, cursed his slight frame, and double-cursed his grief-holed memory for not remembering a simple levitation spell.

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned, clutching at Merlin’s back with a weak hand.

“It’ll be all right, Arthur. Avalon’s just a little further from here—” Merlin was speaking too fast, his words rushed, like if he didn’t do everything at the speed of light, he would lose Arthur forever.

“Merlin,” Arthur pressed on, slackening in Merlin’s arms, becoming a deadweight despite Merlin’s greatest attempts, “I need to rest.”

“Arthur, we can’t. We need to keep moving.” They had just rested an hour or two ago. He knew it was hard on Arthur, but it would be much harder on him if they didn’t reach before…

Merlin didn’t even allow himself to finish the thought.

“Just a little longer, alright?” he said, his voice softening into a plea.

“Merlin. Please,” Arthur whispered. Arthur kept saying Merlin’s name so often, like it was a comfort blanket, something he needed to keep going. Merlin finally met his eyes to see them full of pain.

Merlin could never deny Arthur anything.

When they were all set up, a fire going to keep Arthur warm, a log for Arthur to lean back against, Merlin finally sat down. His whole body was abuzz with worry and a ridiculous need to run, but he rested with Arthur, because he knew Arthur wanted him to.

Merlin supposed he should be saying something comforting, coddling Arthur through his injury and obvious depression. But he couldn’t, his whole being throbbing with torment. Mordred might as well have stabbed him too, the way he hurt all over, his behaviour bordering on delirious. He wished he could trade places with Arthur. He was positive it would hurt less than watching his friend suffer.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and when Merlin turned his attention towards him, Arthur was looking elsewhere. Following the direction of his gaze, Merlin saw a stag and a doe lingering a few metres away, watching the humans in return.

Merlin allowed himself a pained smile at the reminder of the first time he had accepted that he would be in love with Arthur for eternity. He looked back at Arthur, who was still staring at them with an intensity that Merlin didn’t think capable of the mortally wounded.

“Do you remember, almost seven years ago…?” Arthur murmured, and his eyelids were heavy with either nostalgia or fatigue.

“Yes,” Merlin said quickly, even his heartbeat painful, “I remember.”

Arthur cocked in his head in consideration, a habit from his youth that he had never grown out of. “You don’t think—?”

Merlin returned his gaze to the deer, who were still regarding them with curiosity, understanding Arthur’s question before it was even out of his mouth. “No. That was so many years ago, and miles from here. They’re probably gone by now.”

Merlin’s refusal to use any word remotely related to “death” was more what made Arthur sigh than his sadness at the idea of the beautiful creatures’ demise. Merlin looked back at Arthur to find him waiting for Merlin’s full attention.

“That day,” Arthur said, “I realized something about us.”

Merlin didn’t want to hear it. Accepting Arthur’s old memories was also accepting his decision to die, his certainty this conversation with Merlin would be his last words. But Merlin didn’t want Arthur to stop talking either. Maybe Merlin’s name was Arthur’s comfort, but Arthur’s voice was Merlin’s.

At Merlin’s lingering silence, Arthur took it as the permission it was, and continued, “I realized I needed you. Not even magic-wise. In every way. I know now you were born to protect me. That makes sense. But you were born to complete me too, Merlin. I sensed it that day, despite my complete ignorance. You filled a part of me that had always been empty.” Arthur grasped Merlin’s hand with a strength neither were aware he had. He gave Merlin the most genuine smile he’d given in weeks, despite the flash of pain that came with it. “I needed you, Merlin. And here you are.”

Merlin couldn’t even recall when he had leaned in to kiss Arthur, but suddenly, he was there, their lips only gently grazing each other. Arthur’s lips were chapped and his breathing was harsh, but they both needed it, could feel the instant relief it brought. Merlin’s thumb traced over Arthur’s cheekbone, his other hand stroking his shoulder, trying to get as close to Arthur as possible without hurting him. Arthur’s shaky right hand kept trying desperately to wipe the flood of Merlin’s tears away.

“I love you,” Merlin whispered, unable to pull away from Arthur’s closeness.

“I know,” Arthur replied, too calm.

“I’m not giving up on you.” The sentence broke off into a sob.

“I know.” Arthur’s arms were still strong enough to encompass Merlin, his love triumphing over the hiss of pain from his side.

The admission to Merlin’s magic was insignificant compared to this. For the first and only time in Merlin’s whole life, he felt like someone understood him completely and without doubt. Arthur was, and always would be, Merlin’s universe.

~*~

When Merlin reached the lake of Avalon, everything was completely silent, the water still. This region was always somehow completely void of activity, the only thing remaining of Merlin’s life in Camelot. It resisted all attempts of modernization and absorbed into it all of Merlin’s grief. Every day was a grey one on its banks, and many a time Merlin had sat along it not even to wait, but just grateful for the misery that matched his own.

As Merlin trundled over to sit in the grassy patch between the road and the lake, he noticed that he was crying. Not just crying, but sobbing, and so violently that he worried his current physical state would not be able to handle it. As he had suspected, his memories were too painful for close examination, and he wished he had not allowed himself to think of it.

When the life had left Arthur’s eyes, Merlin felt his soul chasing after him, wanting to fall into the oblivion with him. But the world had kept Merlin, and let Arthur go. The unfairness had been overwhelming, and Merlin had screeched at anyone or anything that would listen that he wanted to die too. It had seemed impossible to accept, a place where Arthur could go but Merlin couldn’t follow. But eventually, Merlin had resigned himself to the cruel workings of fate.

The experiences of today had left Merlin feeling like he had opened up a gigantic cardiac wound and put pounds of salt in it. The torture was unspeakable, his broken connection with Arthur more tangible than it had perhaps ever been, besides the morning of his death.

Merlin brought up a trembling hand to wipe some of his tears away, and paused. This hand was not his. It was unlined, unspotted, the veins still subtly placed underneath young, pale skin. He took in a deep breath, tears halted in his surprise. He turned the hand over, exposing a palm still taut over thin but strong bones.

Merlin stumbled to his feet. His legs felt strong as he ran towards the lake, his lungs with the capacity to run for miles. He peered at his reflection in the grey water and found the curious face of a young man, with red-rimmed blue eyes and wild black hair. When Merlin gasped, the young man gasped back.

Merlin turned to look behind him, half-expecting the medieval forest to encompass him again, but the country road was still there, disappearing into Welsh wilderness. Merlin turned back towards the horizon to find a small fawn approaching the water’s edge from the surrounding growth.

“Oh!” Merlin exclaimed, his voice sounding like a child’s. It was the first time he had ever seen anything but decaying plants in the area. The fawn looked up, saw him, but did not run away. Man and deer watched each other cautiously as they stood on the banks.

Merlin may have looked young, but he did not feel young. His separation from Arthur was, as always, a heavy weight on his shoulders. Watching the fawn, thinking of the beginning of his devotion to Arthur all those years ago, he felt old, exhausted. After a millennia of grieving and a distinct lack of living, Merlin found himself wanting to be reborn. Wanting a new life, one that was not fruitless and eternal.

The fawn looked away from him. When Merlin followed his gaze, he felt his heartbeat stutter, his eyes widen. If he didn’t have the wisdom that a thousand years had imparted on him, he could’ve sworn he saw an ancient canoe approaching in the distance.

The sun was setting, the sky above rich with pink and gold hues. The figure in the canoe was nothing but a silhouette against the vibrancy of the falling daylight. But Merlin knew, could feel with every one of his senses, exactly who it was. He opened his arms and let his universe come to him.

The fawn left as quietly as it had come. The lake of Avalon rushed against Merlin’s boots in a tide long forgotten. Somewhere in the distance, Arthur breathed in his second chance.

The legend of King Arthur had begun anew.


End file.
